Ether-Touched (The Breaking Stone Trilogy Book 1)

by L. M. Coulson

  The trek across the palace roof and into Alaric’s bathing chamber was the trickiest part of the return journey, for the wound at his side marred Thyrian’s balance and required a steadying grip from both Vylaena and Alaric. He didn’t complain about it, which Alaric knew was both characteristic for Thyrian and a stubborn, masculine display of endurance. Thyrian would not dare to make so much as a groan—not when the woman helping him walk suffered the same pain with an indifferent face.

  “Don’t ask anyone for aid; we don’t know who we can trust,” Vylaena cautioned Alaric from her perch at the window once he and Thyrian had made it safely back into his chambers. “Bring Thyrian directly to your father—preferably in the middle of a public place with lots of eyes, like his courtroom. Make sure it’s widely known that Thyrian is alive.”

  Her words slid like ice water down Alaric’s spine. “You suspect someone in the palace solicited the attack on Thyrian’s caravan,” he said, helping the foreigner sit on the side of the porcelain tub.

  “Six thousand lynd is a lot of coin. I’ve no doubt a nobleman was behind this. Or someone with noble connections. Someone with lots of money and the ability to hide where it goes.”

  Alaric frowned. But who among those who had knowledge of Thyrian and his caravan would have had the motive to do such a thing? It made absolutely no sense.

  “Very well,” Alaric replied, returning to the window. He raised his chin to meet Vylaena’s cool gaze. “I take it you’re not coming in.”

  “Send my payment to Skin,” she said as answer. “He’ll make sure it gets to me.”

  She turned away and was gone.

  10 | The Revelation

  One of the most terrible sins one could commit as a librarian was to eat in the presence of the Great Masters.

  The Great Masters, of course, being the authors of the wealth of lore the Royal Library of Cyair kept on its endless shelves.

  Everyone did it, regardless of the rules. It was practically a necessity, especially for acolytes in the midst of tough semesters or end-of-term finals, when any time spent away from the stacks was wasted time. One might say that the real sin was getting caught—for what did it matter if you were careful, and all evidence of crumbs or spills were wiped away? But getting caught—that was the trouble. Acolytes caught eating in the library spent a week in the kitchens doing scullery work, with the possibility of suspension for the rest of the term.

  For fully-fledged librarians, the punishment was less severe: extra shifts at the public-facing Office of Inquiry or in the dreaded Scribarium, where unlucky souls copied page after page of the latest King’s Paper for publication across Enserion. But one had to be careful. Breaking any of the library’s rules was a black mark on your reputation.

  And for Flinx, having her reputation damaged while her thesis was still under review was not something she needed.

  But she was behind on the research Vylaena had commissioned, and had begun to feel a little guilty about all that lynd jingling in her purse. All hundred pieces of it. Vylaena was not exactly the prime example of a star citizen, but she certainly knew the value of knowledge. And Flinx respected her for that.

  So Flinx had found an empty study table at the far back of the biography section, where she was least likely to be disturbed, and had spent the last ten hours carefully poring over an assortment of ancient tomes. She’d packed a sandwich in an old handkerchief and hidden it in the pocket of her skirt, and when her stomach began to growl and her endurance faded, she retrieved the little bundle and carefully unwrapped it.

  She ate carefully, as librarians learn to do, with one eye on any entrances to her location and the other on her work, making sure no trace was left to mark her crime. But then her eye caught a keyword—one of the many she looked for when scanning these old volumes for clues.

  Stone. Capitalized. In the middle of a sentence.

  Flinx paused, momentarily forgetting her dinner. She put a finger to the word, reading with excited hastiness.

  Ritual itself is often overlooked, to the detriment of the whole of etherlore. Even the fearsome Stone, without its careful rituals, is relatively powerless. Raw ether, channeled through prescribed means, may unlock potential that single entities alone do not possess . . .

  The muffled sound of voices coming from the entry startled Flinx, shattering her concentration. Someone—or rather, someones—was drawing close at an alarming pace. Panicking, Flinx contemplated shoving her unfinished meal down the top of her shift but instead, desperate, hastily blew out her lamp and scampered under the desk, sandwich in hand.

  The sides of the desk were slatted, but a stacked pile of books partially obscured her from view. Luckily, this part of the biography section was only lit by a single sconce and there wasn’t enough light to give her away. She waited, listening, as two figures rounded one of the outer bookshelves and entered her alcove.

  Flinx froze, her heart hammering, as she recognized Lorist Rynley and . . . was that Prince Eyren? Again? Curious, she strained to hear their conversation, to no avail. They spoke in hushed tones now, heads bowed together beneath the sconce, sharing an open book between them. Rynley’s brow was furrowed, and his signature frown-lines were on full display. That was hardly unusual—Rynley had been a gruff, crotchety old man when she’d first arrived in Cyair and now, thirteen years later, he’d only gotten worse.

  But there was something in his face that gave Flinx pause. Perhaps it was the way he kept glancing back toward the library proper, or the way he kept pressing his lips together before speaking, as though he didn’t want to say anything at all.

  Eyren appeared much more at ease—jovial, even. He’d never stopped smiling since Flinx caught a glimpse of him, and he examined the tome with the same hungry look the first-year acolytes did when they began their studies.

  This was the second time Flinx had caught Rynley and the prince locked in secret discourse. Perhaps the prince was researching something particularly delicate, or something related to the security of the realm. She fought the urge to laugh. Ha. Possible, but highly unlikely. Enserion was a dying mess, and its royal family didn’t give a damn about running it. If it weren’t for the impassable plateau to the north, a giant western neighbor with more land than it knew what to do with, and a peaceful, prosperous kingdom to the south, Enserion might’ve ceased to exist decades ago.

  Rynley and Eyren exchanged a few more words, and then Rynley closed the tome, slipping it into a hidden pocket sewn into his flowing scholar’s robes. Eyren, still smiling, patted the old man on the shoulder and then took his leave, stepping around the corner and back into the warm glow of the library proper.

  Rynley, however, leaned heavily against a nearby bookshelf, wiping his brow with the back of a sleeve. For a moment, it looked as though he’d aged two decades; despite the warm glow of the sconce, his skin was pale and it glistened with sweat. Smudges of purple clung to his eyes, and deep fissures lined his brow. His shoulders slumped forward like limp paper as he rested in the dim light of the biography section, staring worry-eyed into the air.

  Flinx held her breath, watching him, praying to Asta that the man wouldn’t catch her snooping. For a long moment he merely stood there, blinking at nothing. And then, to her great relief, he straightened, turned the corner, and disappeared from view.

  Flinx had completely forgotten her sandwich. She hastily rewrapped it in its paper and tucked it into her skirt pocket, crawling out from beneath the desk. She stood, a thousand questions pounding through her head, and then—a sudden undeniable curiosity taking hold in her chest—shoved her assembled books together and scooped them into her arms.

  Flinx scrambled off in pursuit of the lorist, weaving through the stacks of the library, taking a slightly different route in the hopes of cutting him off. She ignored the dark looks the studying acolytes sent her way as she flew past them; jogging wasn’t precisely against the rules, but it was certainly disruptive.

  She was rewarded when Rynley appeared into view
around a corner, and Flinx stumbled as she tried to slow her speed. She bumped right into the elderly lorist, covering her misstep with a cheerful greeting.

  “Lorist Rynley,” she said a little breathlessly, adjusting her hold on her armful of tomes. “Good evening.”

  “Good evening, Flinx,” Rynley replied, continuing forward, fixing her with a terse stare. “Your badge is crooked.”

  Flinx strode forward to keep up, adjusting her silver librarian’s badge with the edge of one of her books, as her hands were full. It was a well-practiced gesture; she didn’t even break Rynley’s gaze. “I saw you walking through the stacks and thought you looked rather ill. I could fetch one of Sydren’s tonics for you, if you’d like.”

  She watched, missing nothing—the flash of hesitation in his eyes, the slight crinkle at his brows, the twitch of his mustache—as he blinked at her a moment before fixing her in a deep frown.

  “I am quite well, Atremidora. I’ve no idea what gave you that notion.”

  “You’re unearthly pale. Are you quite sure you’re alright?”

  Rynley’s mustache twitched again. “I assure you, I am.” His eyes narrowed. “Shouldn’t you be working?”

  “My thesis is in for review. I’ll hear back any day now.”

  “Yes, but that’s no reason to postpone your other assignments.”

  They left the rosy glow of the main library through a wide set of carved mahogany doors and set off down the main hall of the building. Flinx smiled proudly at her mentor, despite the faint anxiety that laced her gut at the thought of a certain blue tome in lorist Vicmon’s possession. “I finished my other assignments at the same time as my thesis. Everything’s complete and filed.”

  “I’ll set you something new, then.”

  Flinx’s smile faltered. “But Rynley, if my—”

  Rynley stopped in the center of the hall, forcing Flinx to pause with him. He fixed his watery blue eyes on her and took a deep breath. “Not everyone who applies is granted the title of lorist, Flinx.”

  “I know.”

  “There’s a level of selectivity we must retain.”

  “I know that, Rynley, but I—”

  “You’re a gifted girl,” he continued. “No one, not even the goddesses”—his eyes flickered to the Mark on her brow—“can deny that. But there’s more to being a lorist than gifts alone, Flinx. And I don’t want you to be disappointed if you’re not accepted.”

  Flinx stared at Rynley, unease dousing her mood in a cloud of ash. Her throat felt strained, as if the last bite of her sandwich had gotten stuck. “Rynley,” she said, with barely enough breath to push the words out, “what do you know that you’re not telling me?”

  Rynley’s eyes were on everything but her. “Nothing, nothing. I’m not on the Board; I’m not privy to their decisions. I just know how you like to get yourself worked up over things.”

  “I’m merely passionate about my job!”

  A pained look passed over Rynley’s face. “Yes. Of course. That’s what I meant.”

  But it hadn’t been. She knew him too well; she could tell when he lied. But whatever truth he wished to shield from her, he did not seem inclined to give it up. His mouth remained a taut, narrow line.

  Flinx held the lorist’s gaze for a moment longer and then took a step back. “I should be going,” she murmured. “It’s getting late.”

  It wasn’t a good excuse. librarians tended to keep odd hours. But Rynley looked so relieved she didn’t think he cared. “Right,” he said, nodding. “Evening, Flinx.”

  Lorist Rynley hurried away, and Flinx watched his retreat until he disappeared around the corner. Then she stifled a frustrated groan, shifting the weight of the books in her arms.

  What had he meant, that there was more to being a lorist than gifts? Wasn’t that the point? Weren’t the lorists supposed to be the most dedicated, intelligent, talented of them all? What else, then, did they value so much that it might keep her from earning the title herself?

  Flinx turned, setting off toward the deeper sections of the library, past the classrooms and lecture halls, past the book-binding room and the restoration wing, past the Scribarium and its potent stench of ink and boredom, to the far back of the compound where the library records were kept.

  Librarian Falyssre was at her post in the record room, a rounded chamber surrounded on all sides by tall wooden bookshelves, much like the spokes of a wheel. Falyssre’s desk sat at the center of the wheel, on a slightly raised platform, her workstation illuminated by etherlamps installed on the ends of each shelf.

  Well, mostly. Several of the lamps had been replaced by small glass lanterns, and one dying etherlamp was blinking in an erratic way that chilled the base of Flinx’s stomach. Every other flicker, she swore she saw it blink into something else—a colorless crystal, a silver saucer, a monstrous eye . . .

  Flinx tore her gaze away from the malfunctioning lamp and focused on the small, auburn-haired woman at the central desk whose pen scratched merrily across a smooth piece of parchment. The woman glanced up through rounded spectacles as Flinx approached, a warm smile stretching across her face.

  “Oh! Good evening, Flinx. You haven’t been by in a while. It’s good to see you.”

  “Hello, Falyssre. Am I interrupting?”

  The librarian shook her head, depositing her quill into its holder. She stretched, raising her hands high above her head. “What can I fetch for you?”

  “A record of all lorists of the Royal Library. Surely something like that exists.”

  Falyssre nodded, lowering her arms. “You just submitted your thesis, didn’t you?”

  “A few days ago.”

  Something flickered in Falyssre’s eyes—curiosity, perhaps? She pushed her chair back and stood, meandering over to a nearby shelf and disappearing from view. A moment later she returned with a wide volume marked in the middle by a length of crimson silk.

  Falyssre set the tome on her desk and reclaimed her seat, waving Flinx closer. She flipped the volume open to the marked page as Flinx deposited her stack of books onto a cleared corner of the librarian’s desk.

  “Who’re you looking for?” Falyssre asked.

  Flinx glanced down at the page, finding a list of names drawn in a careful script. “It’s not so much a who as a what,” Flinx replied.

  “Well, what’re you looking for?”

  Flinx shook her head. “I’m not entirely sure.”

  “Well you can’t take the record, but I’ll let you look through it here,” Falyssre said, picking up her quill. “Let me know if you need any help.”

  Flinx nodded her thanks, turning a page as Falyssre returned to her work. The record book didn’t seem to contain any personal information; the list of names merely continued as Flinx casually flipped a few pages. Edwyrd Aelsen, he was a lorist of some renown. She knew his name from several of her history books. Graegor Yeln, he’d written one of her favorite volumes of etherlore. She recognized a few of the more recent entries, but nothing more than five pages back.

  The names swirled in her vision, the careful loops of the script hypnotizing in their serene elegance. There was nothing to differentiate them: no accompanying information, no short biographies, nothing more than an endless list of names and years of entry.

  What do you possess, Flinx thought, squinting at the carefully drawn letters, that I do not?

  And then, it hit her.

  Flinx stiffened. “No . . .” she murmured.

  Falyssre glanced up. “What?”

  Flinx tore through the pages, her eyes moving with inhuman speed as she read each line, each name, each perfectly formed character.

  “Flinx?”

  No. It couldn’t be. They wouldn’t . . . because if they . . . oh, rutting Ether . . .

  Flinx raised her head. “Falyssre,” she demanded, her words burning as they leaped from her mouth, “have there ever been any female lorists under Head Lorist Vicmon?”

  Falyssre paused, as if she’d never thou
ght about it before. Then realization, cold and sobering, flooded her face, giving Flinx her answer. “I don’t . . . I don’t think so. I can’t think of any.”

  Flinx nodded, her lips pressed into a bitter line. “A pair of balls,” she spat. “That’s what I’m missing. That’s what’s keeping me from being a lorist.”

  “That can’t be right,” Falyssre said, her quill forgotten, gaping at the text. “Surely that’s not true.”

  “I can read a volume this size in forty-eight seconds,” Flinx retorted, slamming the record book shut with a dusty snap. “But that’s not enough. Because I’m a woman.”

  “You didn’t see any—”

  “Not since he took office forty years ago.”

  Falyssre frowned, shaking her head. “Damn.”

  The pieces fell into place around Flinx, one by one, as if they’d been waiting for this final clue: this was why all of the girls in her class had drawn the basement offices in the “lottery.” This was why she’d never seen a male librarian on cooking duty. This was why the other women were assigned office or library posts while the men were chosen as traveling emissaries, scribes for the nobility, or professors for the acolytes.

  Because Lorist Vicmon—and by extension, the entire Library Board—didn’t believe that they, as women, were as capable as men.

  A hot fury rolled through Flinx, setting her insides on fire. She thought she might combust right there in the record room. Ether take them all. There was no way she was going to accept this.

  If Lorist Vicmon came back and told her that her thesis had been rejected, he’d hardly find a docile, accepting woman in her.

  11 | The Curse

  Vylaena slept most of the day, since she couldn’t venture outside and it would take some time for Alaric to send the lynd she was owed. She would collect it later that night, once she’d rested.